I climbed into my lorry because I was feeling a bit low but what I found hidden under the seat sent a chill right through me.
For years, Ive been driving my truck along the roads connecting Sheffield, Leeds and Manchester. Ive transported all sortsbricks, timber, fresh fruit, car parts But Id never before carried a story that shook me up like this one.
Just the other day, I picked up old Mrs. Dorothy.
I spotted her walking by the vergesticking to the crash barrier, slow, as though every step was an effort. She wore a dark overcoat, battered shoes, and clutched a scruffy old suitcase tied with string.
Son Are you heading to town? she asked in that quiet voice, the sort only an English mother whos borne more than she would ever complain about can have.
Hop in, love. Ill give you a lift, I said.
She sat up straight, hands folded in her lap. She was holding a set of prayer beads and staring out the window in silence, as though she was saying goodbye to something she couldnt quite leave behind.
After a while, she said, straight out: They turned me out, you know.
No tears. No shouting. Just exhaustion.
Her daughter-in-law had told her, You dont belong here any more. Youre in the way.
Her bags were left by the front door. And her son her own son stood there. Silent. Didnt stick up for her.
Can you imagine? Raising a child on your own? Sitting up with them when they had a fever, splitting your last crust of bread with them, walking everywhere because there wasnt enough for bus fare And one day, the one you loved most in the world looks at you as though youre a stranger.
Dorothy didnt argue. She just put on her coat, picked up her case, and left.
We drove in silence for a while. Then she handed me a couple of dry biscuits, wrapped carefully in cling film.
My grandson used to love these back when he still visited, she said quietly.
Thats when it hit meit wasnt a passenger I was carrying. It was a mothers heartbreak, heavier than any load.
When we stopped for a break, I noticed some carrier bags under her seat. It played on my mind, so I asked, What have you got there, Dorothy?
She hesitated, then opened her suitcase.
Tucked beneath folded cardigansmoney. Saved up over years.
My savings, son. My pension, a bit from knitting, help from neighbours all for my grandkids.
And does your son know about this?
No. And he mustnt.
No bitterness, just grief.
Why not spend it on yourself? I asked.
I always thought Id grow old with them. Now Im not even allowed to see the child. Theyve told him Ive gone away.
Her eyes welled up, and I felt a lump in my throat myself.
I told her it wasnt safe to carry cash around like that. In England, people get mugged for a lot less.
I took her to a bank in the nearest townnot to buy a house, just to keep her safe.
Once shed paid her savings in, she stepped outside and breathed in deepas if the burden shed been carrying for years had finally been lifted from her shoulders.
And where to now? I asked.
A woman from my old village said shes got a spare room. Just for a bit until I get sorted, she replied.
I dropped her off there. She wanted to pay me.
I refused.
Youve given enough, Dorothy, I told her. Now its your turn to live.
Sometimes in life, we cross paths with people the world has forgotten just to remind us how easy it is to turn a mother out, and how hard it is to live with yourself afterwards.
